


Oldstones

by RunningHaunted



Series: Kindred [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dorks in Love, Geralt is having some mental breakdowns, Inside jokes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prophecy, Protective!Geralt, Renfri our girl gets mentioned, Roach is so done with them all, Self destructive streak, but it‘s not good, denial is not just a river in egypt, he doesn‘t deserve this, inhuman witchers, jaskier is slowly descending into... something, jaskier is such a troubled little dandelion, let‘s call it madness, so do Ciri and Yen, very inappropriate language, we all hate Stregobor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningHaunted/pseuds/RunningHaunted
Summary: Jaskier would like to mention that, again, he does NOT have a death wish. He doesn’t. Really.Geralt disagrees rather vehemently.Roach just wants them to grow the hell up and kiss.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Kindred [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584472
Comments: 96
Kudos: 1223





	Oldstones

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this part got faaaar longer than I expected or intended. But well, at least that makes up for the awfully long wait somewhat. Also, I‘m actually kind of satisfied how it turned out, sooo... i hope you‘ll enjoy it. >.<
> 
> Thanks go out to @angry-kirbo whom I‘ve had some awesome chats with. You rock mate! And guess what, i managed to not hit any more villagers on accident! ;P
> 
> This installment is dedicated to @bladeangel who gave me the awesome idea for Geralt vs. an excited pack of children and exploring how our darling witcher is learning social cues from his strange pack members. Honestly, your comment floored me and I‘m so grateful for it! This is only a comparatively small part of this „exploration“ because I‘m planning on having this be one more of the continuous ‚threads‘ holding this story together, strengthening the bond of our two ridiculous dorks. Again, thank you! <3
> 
> So many others had wonderful theories for this installment and quite frankly, I squealed when i saw how accurate some of them were but... no spoilers yet. Go on, read! You can always come and hunt me down with a pitchfork later on ^^
> 
> On another note: This installment was also slightly inspired by the song „Jenny of Oldstones“ which has gotten stuck in my head. Before this part was even half done I went overboard with sketching some fanart and making an entire playlist for this series an just... whelp, I might upload it on my Tumblr if you’re interested. But really, I suggest you go listen to „Jenny of Oldstones“ by Florence + the Machine. A song which is originally from Game of Thrones. It‘s simply fascinating... and aren’t we all dancing with ghosts sometimes? 
> 
> Alright, without further ado: ENJOY! (And be nice about the pitchforks later on >.<) 
> 
> Note: NOT EDITED OR PROOFREAD AS OF YET!!

It _burns_. 

Jaskier had never had a problem like this before. Sure, the metal makes his insides lurch sometimes upon contact, but never had it actually hurt him. 

The bard dunks the fingers of his right hand in the small stream, cursing profusely. 

This could not be happening. Not now. Not right now, please. He needs more time. 

The next town is still a few days off and Jaskier is in desperate need of a mage to contact Aretuza. To contact Yennefer and _buy some fucking time_! 

„Fuck fuck _fuck_!“ 

He turns his hand over, inspecting the burns in the quickly fading light of day. They’re an angry red. Jaskier doubts he’ll be able to play the lute again soon. 

He just hopes Geralt will not notice. 

Then again, it’s unlikely that he’ll care either way... as long as he doesn’t find out that it’s silver that had caused it. 

Jaskier swallows thickly, trying to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth. 

He’d seen Renfri touch silver and jerk back howling, crying her eyes out. Her palms had been scraped raw, covered in blisters for days afterward. None of them had understood. Except-

The bard shakes his head, banishing the image. 

He needs to be careful with what he touches. 

Jaskier chokes back the tears with an exhausting amount of effort. There’s a ringing in his ears, low and consistent. 

He’s running out of time. 

The bard casts a quick glance towards the sky, through the shivering tree crowns, at the crescent moon rising into the violet void. 

This, it feels... odd. 

He’s feeling lighter than he has in years, the constant tiredness that had started settling in his bones a few years back is subsiding more and more with each day. It’s refreshing; it terrifies him. 

After what feels like five minutes but must have been well over half an hour, he gets up, gathering the rather pathetic excuse for firewood in his arms and keeps the hand with the burns tucked between some twigs. 

There’s no visible path back to the small camp, but if you’re on the road and frequently camp in maze-like forests you start adapting by using plants and bark patterns to remember which way to go. 

Also, he’s pretty sure that if he were to scream, Geralt would hear it from a mile away. 

It’s a strange kind of reassurance. 

Then again, nothing about them is normal in the first place, so Jaskier figures they’re even. 

He trudges through the woods with a lack of enthusiasm that would appall his late relatives. Mice and birds scurry through the leaves on all sides, watching the bard struggle and fail not to trip over protruding roots. 

When he gets back to the clearing it’s almost completely dark, and Geralt‘s eyes are on him the instant Jaskier is close enough to see. 

He knows others think Geralt‘s eyes are unnerving, how they seem to glow golden like wolf‘s, the pupils contracting to slits like a cat‘s. 

Jaskier remembers when he’d been mildly afraid of them. Imagining those orbs staring coldly at his- at  her as he’d struck her down. 

He’d never asked how Renfri had died. He doesn’t think he wants to know. The guilt is already eating him up enough as is. 

The silver sword is back in its sheath beside Geralt‘s bedroll and Jaskier finds he can breathe easier. The pile of twigs is dumped in the small circle of stones the Witcher had constructed in his absence. 

„Could you“ Jaskier wiggles the fingers of his left hand, hoping Geralt would catch on. 

The man rolls his eyes but complies, forming a sign. „Igni“

The pile of twigs bursts into flames, eating through the dry sustenance with a low crackle, illuminating their small camp in a soft orange sheen.

Jaskier plops down beside Geralt, their shoulders almost-but-not-quite touching. 

Honestly, Jaskier doesn’t know why he still gives a crap about what would happen if he just... kissed Geralt or something. It sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time someone had done that. And it’s not like he’d be around long enough to mourn the decision.

He knows there’s a very real possibility though that the witcher would kick him out on his ass, and even though it wouldn’t deter Jaskier from following him he truly doesn’t want Geralt to be cross with him before he even finds out that his traveling companion is.... well... changing into something people hire witchers to kill. 

Or, not people, only Stregobor, the abominable fuck goblin. 

Jaskier really marvels at the fact that the mage hadn’t died of constipation yet, what with him being so full of shit. 

At least Jaskier doesn’t have to worry about raising Lilith or something equally distasteful. 

„Stop it.“

The bard blinks, caught off guard. When he looks up Geralt‘s eyes are already on him. 

„I‘m _literally_ just sitting here.“ Jaskier says, a little indignant. 

Inhuman eyes roll in their sockets. „I can feel you think. You’re gonna hurt yourself.“

„Haha, because I haven’t got a brain. Funny.“

„Thank you.“

Jaskier chuckles. 

The fire is hypnotic. Curling, twisting and collapsing in intervals. Part of him wants to know if it would burn him like the silver had. 

The light catches on the brooch fastened to Geralt‘s sword. 

Maybe it’s part of his self destructive streak, maybe he’s just that masochistic (gods above does he need to get laid), but it’s like his mouth opens on its own accord as he asks. „Is what they say about what happened in Blaviken true?“

He can _feel_ rather than see Geralt stiffen. „Why do you ask?“ 

Ah, here comes the regret. He shouldn’t have asked. „Curiosity. I’ve only heard secondhand accounts.“

„And what do they say?“

Jaskier considers if he should tell, but his fingers take this exact moment to throb painfully. „That you slaughtered them.“ he presses out. 

Geralt sighs. „Jaskier, I told you before. I will not harm you.“

The bard doesn’t think he imagines the resigned tone. 

Still, he can’t help but be touched by the vehemence with which Geralt declared it. 

„I‘m aware“ Jaskier replies softly, giving into the urge to lean slightly sideways until their arms brush. 

To the bard‘s utter delight, Geralt doesn’t move away. 

„Why do you want to know?“

Jaskier shrugs, relishing in the heat coming off the Witcher in waves. It’s better than the fire. „Dunno.“

Silence stretches between them like a thin veil. An owl hoots in the distance, low and grieving. Branches crack in the distance as deer make their way through the underbrush in search for food. 

The quiet lingers until Jaskier thinks Geralt won’t answer at all. And yeah, he’s almost a little relived. 

Somewhere between the question and the echoing silence, Roach had made her way over to them, pushing her about insistently against Jaskier‘s collarbone until he starts scratching her velvety nose.

Then, rather unexpectedly, she lays down, with her behind just barely brushing Geralt und with her head still curved so the bard can continue giving her head a good massage. 

„I did.“ Geralt says. 

Jaskier blinks, turning his head towards the other man.Geralt‘s eyes are on the fire, the flames reflected in the wolf-like eyes. He wonders if it had hurt, when they’d changed. 

„They attacked me. They threatened to kill everyone in the village.“

„So you killed them?“

„Yes. Their leader had captured a little girl.“

Jaskier bites his tongue. He can’t imagine Renfri doing that. 

„But she was let go and then we fought.“

That’s more like her. 

„I did not want to kill her.“

„But you did.“

„Yes.“ something haunted had crept into Geralt‘s voice. 

Roach whinnies softly; it sounds like wordless comfort. 

It’s something that’s reoccurring in the Witcher, Jaskier thinks. 

Geralt is like a house haunted by ghosts. He’s moving through the world pretending everyone is already dead. It’s easier than being faced with the eventual, inevitable loss. At least that’s what the bard is guessing. 

And yet, Jaskier knows that Geralt‘s feelings (if he allows them) run deeper than most would suspect. 

(Wow, there’s probably a line or two in there he could use for his next song. He’s a genius. Duh.)

„They were in Blaviken to find a mage.“

Stregobor.

„I met him. He told me that she’d been cursed.“

The Curse of the Black Sun. 

Yeah, thanks, he knows all about that one. 

So Geralt really had killed her because of it. 

„When she- in the end she told me about the prophecy with Ciri.“

Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat.

So it had been a collective knowledge after all... Renfri had provided the prophecy and Jaskier had dragged him to the feast for the Law of Surprise. 

Figures. 

Jaskier wets his lips, preparing himself for the next and last painful question. 

„Were they buried?“

This time Geralt doesn’t even bat an eyelash when the bushes across the clearing jostle, likely absorbed in the memory of the day that had labeled him The Butcher of Blaviken. 

„I don’t know. The mage took her to...“ Geralt‘s lips curl in disgust. „Dissect her.“

Yeah, asking had definitely been a spectacularly bad idea. He should ask Yennefer if she had some kind of potion to retrieve the impulse control he’d shoved off a cliff at one point. 

„I didn’t stop him.“

Jaskier can feel the meager dinner of bread and dried fruit climb up his throat, leaving his throat dry and parched. 

„I see.“ the bard says, a little torn between hysteria and resignation. 

He’d suspected, of course. But the last tether of hope had clung on desperately over the years. 

But... she must have suspected. Accounted for the possibility. Even if half feral and fierce, Renfri must have known she’s no match for a Witcher. 

She’d gambled. And she’d lost. 

„They drove you out afterwards, didn’t they?“

Geralt „hm“s, an assent. He’s still staring into the flames. 

Jaskier sighs, taking a chance by leaning further into Geralt. The Witcher doesn’t pullaway, the muscles he feels pressed up against his side relax ever so slightly. 

„It’s Stregobor‘s fault, Geralt. You... you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.“

Geralt looks at him momentarily, eyebrows drawn together in question before his features go back to being expressionless. 

„Don’t make excuses for me.“ Geralt replies dully. 

Jaskier watches him, the lines of his face conveying a string of complicated emotions going in and out of focus. 

The bard is once again struck with a burst of affection for the white haired Witcher. 

It might be illogical, but even if he had killed the one person he truly gave a fuck about, the fact that Geralt feels bad for having done it makes it... not so bad? 

Or maybe he’s just that much of a lovesick fool. 

„You‘re a good person, Geralt.“ Jaskier says, truly meaning it despite the Witcher’s disbelieving scoff. 

Jaskier smiles. He’s not sure it reaches his eyes. 

———

Cities, large or otherwise, make Geralt want to turn tail more than an entire pack of strigas. 

Which sounds slightly exaggerated but is the hard and honest truth. Witchers just aren’t made to be amongst so many humans. 

Normally he would have travelled around it. But things are rarely normal nowadays since Jaskier had made a reappearance. (A reappearance that still leaves him reeling with unease. The bard had been reeking of the darkest magics, delirious and drunk with whatever had been poured down his throat. Half mad, laughing like a maniac as he’d stumbled into Geralt‘s arms, covered in blood and dirt. Geralt had been at the abandoned castle to investigate rumors of a vampire. Instead he’d gotten a feral Jaskier. It had taken both Geralt and Yennefer a week to pull him out of that stupor. He has yet to talk about it.)

But as it is, he follows a skipping Jaskier through the city gates with a disgruntled frown and Roach‘s reins fisted in his hand. 

The mare neighs when one of the guards eyes the little group suspiciously, swishing her tail irritatedly. Geralt pats her neck approvingly, dismissing the stench of cheap beer wafting off a couple men further to the side. 

Ard Carraigh is by no means a pretty city, but its infrastructure functions well enough to provide a certain amount of luxury for all people who are willing to work for it. 

The buildings are squished tightly against each other, grey stone making up both home and shop. Brass and wooden signs advertise healers, crafts, architects and more. 

The streets are filled with carts, farmers and traders selling food and pottery. 

Jaskier is already a good couple feet ahead, drawing the attention of more people than Geralt is strictly comfortable with. 

It requires a frightening amount of control not to rest a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

But he‘s also oddly relieved to see the bard in such a light mood, eliciting laughs from the town‘s people with some verses, glares with others. 

Geralt makes sure to stare them down, silently daring them to throw something at Jaskier. 

None of them do. 

They do spit some nasty curses his way, though. 

Jaskier pays them no mind, playing his most popular song on the lute (though not with as much grace, Geralt notices), walking all around Geralt and Roach in the process, grinning cheekily at some children. 

„Toss a coin to your witcher, O valley of plenty...“

Geralt rolls his eyes, his mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. 

He‘s once again struck by how much Jaskier makes him... feel.... And how much he doesn’t even want that to change. 

But there’s something brewing on the horizon. It’s in the air; thin traces of magic stretching over the lands with dizzying intensity. 

He can only hope that Yen and the other mages at Aretuza can keep Ciri safe while he‘s out destroying whatever creature threatens the balance of worlds now. 

And that Jaskier will agree to stay somewhere safe without Geralt having to tie him down. Which, gods forbid, could be interpreted by the bard as foreplay and thus have him bailing yet again. 

He wonders when things had gotten so complicated. 

„Geralt!“ 

Geralt startles, tensing all over. His eyes dart to Jaskier, then behind him, trying to spot any potential dangers. 

Jaskier almost runs into him with a wide smile, pushing a weird looking fruit into his chest. It‘s only his inhumanly fast reflexes that have Geralt catch the thing before it can splatter on the ground. 

He looks at it, taking in the red exterior with its weird horn like protrusions. He sniffs at it but can’t detect anything other than the lingering smell of rain. 

„What is that?“

Jaskier‘s smile, if possible, widens. 

„It’s a dragon fruit!“ he says, pointing at one of the shop owners. A young woman with kind brown eyes who waves shyly when Jaskier calls out his thanks. 

„It’s not magical.“ Geralt deadpans. 

Jaskier snorts. „Obviously, smartass. It’s a fruit!“

„Hm.“

„Don’t _hm_ me, Geralt. Try it!“ 

Roach bows her head, sniffing curiously at it before shaking her head in obvious distaste. 

The bard laughs, sticking his tongue out. “You just can’t appreciate the good things!”

Roach bumps her head against his chest gently in disagreement. 

Geralt just watches the exchange. Fond of the way Jaskier treats Roach almost like an equal and not just a means of transport, talking to her like he does. 

The monster-beast-thing purrs in satisfaction, curling itself tight around the Witcher’s vocal cords in an attempt to make the sound physical. 

When Jaskier’s done bantering with Roach (garnering more than a few perplexed looks from onlookers) he procures a knife seemingly out of nowhere, slicing the strange fruit up into two pieces. One of which he hands Geralt, pointing at the milky center dotted with black spots. 

“Ok, I had this at a banquet once. Tried it before one of the husbands recognized me... awkward situation, really. But anyway, that gorgeous lady there told me that you’re only supposed to eat the soft center. Not the shell! Maybe it’s poisonous or something... don’t know.” He babbles excitedly before literally stuffing his half in his face, taking a big bite. 

Jaskier all but _moans_ at the taste and Geralt has to turn away quickly and focus on something— anything— else because... fuck... that sound makes that ugly thing writhe under his skin even harder and Geralt- _fuck_. He really needs to get laid soon. (It won’t silence it but maybe it will get quieter for a while.)

He lifts the foreign fruit to his mouth, sniffing twice before taking a cautious bite. 

It’s sweet and ripe, almost sugary in its taste. The black seeds crunch between his teeth and the juice is blessedly cool as it runs down the back of his throat. Geralt has never been a sweet tooth, but he finds himself enjoying the unique fruit nonetheless. 

He hears Jaskier’s grin when the bard asks him “it’s not so bad, is it?”

“Hm.”

They walk through the busy streets until the sun almost touches the edge of the highest buildings, stopping every once in a while to try some more delicacies. 

Geralt doesn’t even care that they’re mostly using his coin to pay for it. A testament to how ingrained Jaskier already is into the most fundamental aspects of his life. 

The group of children they encounter some time in the afternoon, lured by the sound of Jaskier’s singing, edge as close as they dare. Some watch Geralt, who’s standing like a looming shadow beside Roach, warily. 

Of course, when Jaskier notices them, he beckons them to come closer, pulling funny faces to go with the more comedic songs. 

The children laugh, grabbing curiously at Jaskier’s lute which— to Geralt’s utmost surprise— is handed to them easily enough. 

Geralt breathes in deep, the scent of contentment and happiness wafting off Jaskier a heady thing that makes his insides warm. 

It’s not long before Jaskier sits in the street, surrounded by giggling kids, telling them stories of their journey across the continent and of the many beasts they’d encountered. 

Their wide, awes eyes remind Geralt of Ciri when she’d eventually shed some of the wariness around him, allowing herself to act more like her age. All curiosity, no contempt for his profession. A heart that hadn’t been tainted yet. 

He’s... glad that Jaskier had suggested heading for Aretuza. He knows that Yen would give her life to protect Ciri, had known it as soon as the sorceress’s gaze had landed on the frightened child clinging to Geralt, protectiveness flaring up in her very magic like a bonfire. 

It’s almost amusing how wrong he’d been in assuming that she wouldn’t make a good mother. 

Still, it’s like an itch he can’t scratch, being away from Cirilla makes him restless. She’s so young and even though she’s powerful she doesn’t know how to control those powers yet. 

It will do him good to have all of them spend some time in relative close vicinity again. Yen-

Geralt is ripped from his musings when Jaskier points conspiratorially at him, whispering something to the kids Geralt can’t pick up on due to the chatter around him. 

He does have a bad feeling, however. One that gets proven right when Jaskier winks at him and yells “ATTACK, MINIONS!”

Geralt of Rivia gets bowled over by a group of enthusiastic children before he has a chance to flee, letting himself go down as to not hurt them with the hard plates of armor. 

Ground meets Witcher with a _clang_ and an “ _oof_ ” and some part of his brain promises to strangle Jaskier later on. Then he’s bombarded with hundreds of questions instead of tiny fists and hands that run all over his armor curiously and-

Geralt is left reeling, too stunned by the obvious trust these kids put in him to not hurt them. 

Like he’s not some fucking nightmare. Like he’s not one of the most deadly creatures walking this godforsaken continent. 

And to top it all off, all the grown ups do is look a little disapproving. None of them pull the children away with fear in their eyes. None of them are actually afraid and- and he’s got to thank Jaskier for this, doesn’t he? Him and his stupid, stupid songs that are being sung everywhere. 

“Did you really fight a griffin?”

“Are elves nice?”

“Have you met a princess?”

“What about unicorns?”

“Can I touch your necklace?”

“Has your hair always been white?”

“Your eyes are soooooo awesome!”

„Can I be a witcher, too!?“

All Geralt can do is press forward a short “yes”and “no” as they climb all over him, pulling at strands of his hair and pieces of clothing that’s considered interesting. 

The poor Witcher just lets it happen, leaning stiffly back against Roach’s steady legs. The mare isn’t perturbed by the pack of little humans in the slightest, whiffing in their faces and indulging their eager hands seeking to touch her fur. 

Jaskier the traitor still sits in the same place hunched over with laughter wracking his body. 

“Gods! Geralt, your face!” the bard wheezes, laughing even harder when Geralt gives him the stink eye. 

Fucking bard. 

Geralt’s hands snap up to catch one of the flailing kids who’d lost balance trying to climb Roach, setting the sheepish girl back onto safe ground. She giggles, hugging him quickly with a rosy blush spreading on her cheeks before ducking between the others, hurrying to her beckoning mother who promptly proceeds to reprimand her for trying to climb another person’s horse. 

No word about going near a Witcher. 

Since Kaer Morhen, since his hair had turned white and his eyes had mutated into their golden, inhuman hue, people would pull their children away from him, curling their bodies around them like Geralt‘s a wolf on the prowl; something that devours children and leaves the bones on the front porch of their homes.

So Geralt just sits there, dumbstruck and overwhelmed by the happy chatter and the knowledge that little humans would voluntarily come near him just because Jaskier told them to and... it‘s all very unreal. 

Jaskier grins at him like he knows exactly what Geralt is thinking. 

Geralt’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, a faint echo compared to the sunshine that seems to be radiating off the bard. 

They continue wandering for some time. Even after all the children have left a chorus of newly learned song permeates the air softly in the distance. 

Roach had been dropped off at an inn to catch some much needed rest and food and even though Geralt had intended to head straight to the tavern and get wasted, Jaskier had insisted on heading out some more. Going so far as to say Geralt could head to the tavern while he would go alone. 

Like Geralt would let the bard out of his sight with that suicidal streak of his. 

They walk blindly, barely an inch apart. Only stopping occasionally to let Jaskier chat with one or the other woman they coma across, spouting flattery and charming smiles left and right. 

And yes, it does grate on Geralt like few things else do. It makes the monster-thing dart fitfully around the cramped confines of its prison, looking for a way out to claw at whatever thinks that it could _compete_ for—

He forces himself to turn away, focusing instead on an old man selling swords and knives. They’re not very skillfully made, the steel a weak thing that would surely break upon impact with anything too hard or resilient, but the handles are crafted with an expertise that most lack. Intricate figures are carved into them, adorned with gems. 

More of a pretty gift for a beloved than anything. 

His eyes do get caught on a small dagger nonetheless. Flowers are twisting like vines through the steel of the blade, likely stamped while it had still been hot and malleable. The handle is wrapped in leather with a single blue stone at the top that reminds him oddly of the hue Jas-

Geralt shakes his head, forcing himself to move along and ignore the rather hostile look of the tradesman. 

He really, really needs to have a drink soon. And a good fuck, preferably. 

A few more minutes pass in which Geralt eyes the assortment of weapons contemplatively, eyes flitting back to the small dagger every few seconds. He can‘t believe he’s actually contemplating bu-

Geralt stiffens when he catches Jaskier‘s scent souring from relaxed and cheery to shock and steadily increasing trepidation. 

The Witcher whips around, his eyes focusing with lightning speed on the bold colors of Jaskier‘s clothes, zeroing in on the arm of a cloaked man gripping hi- the bard‘s forearm. A man who is just now pulling Jaskier forward to hiss something in his hear, close enough that it would be easy for a knife to slide unseen-

Geralt is upon them before he himself notices it, throat clogged with unfamiliar, choking terror. 

_ Not again.  _

He grasps Jaskier around the middle, spinning him away and behind himself while simultaneously trapping the cloaked figure‘s wrist in a death grip, full on prepared to bash their head against the next best building when the cloak just... _falls away._

The wrist in his grip disintegrates like smoke and Geralt‘s senses are ablaze with the presence of foreign magic as the entire person just vanishes into thin air. 

A mage. 

He hisses a curse, disregarding it for now in favor of rounding on Jaskier, half expecting to see a red stain blossom on the ridiculous garment of his. 

Geralt is ashamed to admit that a huge gulp of air audibly escapes him when he doesn’t see or smell any blood. 

The bard does look shell shocked, however. Wide blue eyes glassy and unseeing. 

„Jaskier!“

The bard flinches, hands instinctively flying up to grasp Geralt‘s forearms in an attempt to steady himself. 

„Jaskier“ he tries again, more insistent. „Are you ok? What did they want?“

Jaskier blinks, finally looking up at Geralt and the expression in them... it unsettles the witcher, because he knows he‘s seen that kind of quiet rage before, but he can‘t remember where.

„No.“ he says simply, and it‘s the same voice he’d had weeks after Geralt had found him. When Jaskier would wake up screaming and Geralt had stayed in the room with him because none of them were sure what he’d do otherwise. 

Pushing would only make Jaskier shut him out even more, so Geralt backs off. For now. 

„Let’s go back to the tavern.“ he says gruffly, steering Jaskier around until he‘s shielded from curious stares.

„Yeah.“ 

Geralt swallows heavily, vowing to get them both a heavy drink at the tavern. 

The way back is filled with an oppressive silence, made worse by the lingering smell of ozone in the air that doesn’t seem to have an origin.

Geralt doesn’t take his eyes off the people passing them by. His hand is warm where he‘s touching Jaskier. 

—-

It’s when Geralt’s too intoxicated by cheap ale and the attention of a pretty girl that Jaskier steals away hours later, slipping through the door like a shadow. 

Roach lifts her head where she’s tied outside, shaking her head in bemusement. 

The bard takes a second to pet her velvety snout, talking softly in her ear. 

It doesn’t seem to calm her. Instead, she tugs at the rope keeping her bound, whinnying in protest. 

Jaskier tries hushing her lest Geralt notices. The Witcher is almost freakishly attuned to his horse and there’s no doubt that he’d come running if he heard. Inebriated to the point of oblivion or not. 

When Roach doesn’t quiet down after a few minutes as soon as hetakes more than a couple steps from the tavern, Jaskier curses softly and puts his all into running around the next corner, trying to melt into the shadows, taking as many turns as possible. 

He can hear Roach buck and whinny until he passes the next tavern where the noise from within drowns her out. 

With any luck Geralt thinks the mare just wants more food. 

The streets are empty enough to be unnerving and Jaskier feels oddly naked without Geralt’s constant, watchful gaze.

He draws the cloak he’d snatched from Geralt a little tighter around himself, taking comfort in the familiar scent of pine and musk. 

Jaskier chuckles, imagining Geralt‘s face when he finds it missing. Then remembers that he‘s probably too busy with... stuff, to even notice it 

It‘s not long before he reaches the outer rim of the walled in city, stopping in front of a closed down shop that looks about ready to collapse into itself. Yet, the yellow glow behind the dust covered windows indicates a fire. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath before he presses against the rotting door, entering. 

„I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.“

Jaskier grinds his teeth like he wants to break them, throwing the door shut with more force than is strictly necessary. 

„What the fuck do you want, Stregobor?“

The aging mage leans back in his chair, smiling in a way that makes Jaskier‘s skin crawl. 

It makes him remember the sudden, stabbing pain that had had him go down in the middle of a performance in some no-name-village. The feeling of his knees giving out, the next verse getting stuck in his throat as he’d desperately clawed at it, but there was no injury to accompany the sensation of something sharp being shoved through his neck. 

The fucking desperation of it because he’d _known_. _He’d fucking known_ and he’d refused to accept it. 

It’s always denial that comes first. 

He remembers wanting to _die_ right there and then, sobbing and screaming on the dusty ground. He remembers trying to end it. 

He remembers the all consuming hate he’d had for Geralt at that moment. 

He remembers vowing to kill Stregobor. 

„Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.“ Jaskier growls, trying and failing to ground himself with the cloak‘s scent. 

The smile morphs into a leer. „Still just as feisty as your sister, I see.“

„Shut up! You don’t get to fucking talk about her!“ 

The mage raises his hands placatingly, and Jaskier seethes. His fingers are itching with the want to strangle the bastard and slice him up like a fucking birthday cake. 

(Or flay him alive, dunk him in a barrel of salt and leave him in the desert to die with just his own skin as shade. Yeah, Jaskier‘s had time to think about this stuff and get creative.) 

„Peace, bard.“

Jaskier splutters. „Peace-!?“ 

Stregobor doesn’t miss a beat. „I must say I was surprised to hear that you’re traveling with Geralt of Rivia.“

„What can I say, we share a mutual hatred for pervy, wrinkly gremlins.“

„Oh Julian-„

„Don’t.“

„Right, that’s right. You go by another name now.“ 

„Is there any fucking point to this?“ Jaskier hisses, hand closing around the small dagger he’d hidden in his pocket. „Or can I kill you now?“

„So eager for your precious Witcher to kill you, too?“

„If it means getting rid of you I’d do just about anything!“ Jaskier spits. 

The flames in the fireplace crackle merrily, rising and falling as if moved by an invisible hand, licking around the stones. 

Stregobor, the smug bastard, only hums while crossing his arms. „It‘s getting worse, isn’t it?“

„Your ugly mug? Definitely.“

„Does silver burn you yet?“

Something cold runs down Jaskier‘s spine and he feels the blood drain from his face. „How-„

Stregbor laughs. „It does!“

He‘s freezing despite the cloak and the fire now. Geralt‘s lingering scent isn’t enough to ward off the feeling of dread crawling up his throat anymore. 

„And to think that our dear butcher hasn’t caught on!“ Stregobor continues, obviously getting a lot of delight out of Jaskier‘s predicament. 

„Don’t call him that.“ the bard replies tonelessly. If he didn’t know that any and every attempt to just stab the mage wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass he’d have lunged by now. 

He wonders how Yennefer managed to study magic while Stregobor was in Aretuza with her. The bastard gives everyone within five hundred yards nightmares. 

„Or maybe...“ Stregobor muses, and Jaskier really has to put in a lot of effort to stay standing by the door „He just refuses to think about how time isn’t affecting you as it should.“

„You jealous?“ Taking stock of the room it likely used to be a bakery at some point. Dusty signs with loaves of bread and cakes are lying discarded in a corner. The knife he’s still gripping might not kill Stregobor (because no doubt is the bastard just waiting for an excuse to dissect Jaskier, too) but he could damn well deal the mage a good amount of damage. 

He’d never acquired the expertise Renfri had possessed with weapons, but he’d been taught this stuff since he’d been old enough to walk. And even though he hadn’t had any desire to pursue a career in swordsmanship or become a soldier (he’s happy with being a bard, thank you) there’s a reason why he’s still alive and hasn’t ended up skewered by the spouses’ of his lovers. 

The only one who’s allowed to skewer him is Geralt. (Jaskier would also prefer the skewering that includes foreplay, but beggars can’t be choosers.)

“Curious.”

“About what my insides look like?” Jaskier knows he’s bitching, but fuck it, people cope differently with stressful situations and Jaskier is roughly two more sentences away from breaking at the seams. 

Gods above and below, Jaskier wishes he’d stayed at the tavern to get absolutely wasted. 

“That, too.” Stregobor says calmly and Jaskier wants to break every single bone in his body. But he’s- he’s not that kind of monster. Yet. “Sadly, that will have to wait.”

“If you already know so much, wanna test if I’m immune to magic now as well?” The bard snarls. 

„Oh I know you are.“ Stregobor replies, ever cheerful. „I knew the moment you escaped the castle.“

Jaskier recoils, almost running into a dusty table in the process. „How-„

„We’re keeping a close watch on you.“

„Fuck you-„

„And you’re the last piece of this very intricate puzzle, Julian. When it’s finally completed, the others will have to believe me.“

„You’re insane.“ 

„And you are running out of time.“

„Yeah no shit! Now why the ever loving fuck did you want me to come here you sick asshole? To gloat?“

„No. I came here to see for myself.”

“Mother of- will you stop speaking in riddles!?”

“I wished to see how it’s changing you.” The mage clarifies, standing up. “How our little sacrificial lamb is balancing on the tip of a witcher’s blade while fleeing his destiny. Until now, you’ve always dished it out instead of being subjected to it, haven’t you?”

Stregobor turns his back to him, and Jaskier is reminded again of how much he loathes this poor excuse for a human being. Justifying dissecting girls alive or trapping them and twisting generations with some fucked up prophecy. 

“The child surprise, the djinn... now it’s your turn.”

“You have no idea how much I want to strangle you right now.”

“I know you want to stab me. But we both know that knife you got there is not going to do any permanent damage. But I’m relieved to see that the violent streak is still there.”

The fury is simmering so close beneath the surface now that Jaskier’s next words sound downright feral. “Trust me on this, Stregobor: when I die, you’ll have done so before me.”

Stregobor smiles. “Yes, Renfri said the same.”

This time Jaskier does lunge. 

The blade slices through the air with an audible woosh. 

Stregobor is gone. Of course. Vanished like the coward he is and the bard is left standing in an empty shop with a dying fire. Alone.

Nothing‘s going to stop Jaskier from getting that drink at the tavern now.

And getting absolutely fucking wasted. 

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... who caught Jaskier slipping up in the beginning? ;P
> 
> As always, I would love love love to hear about any theories or thoughts you might have. ^W^
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
